The Universe Expanded
by Shoedonym
Summary: A collection of canonish and speculation one shots. Ranges from lazy mornings to angsty evenings.
1. So you, my dear, shouldn't fear

A/N: Hello! I decided it's been way too long since I posted anything on here, so I'm uploading a bunch of canon/speculation one shots that I posted on tumblr over onto here. Some of them date from last year and so speculations should be taken with a handful of salt, naturally.

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 _I needed to stop looking at my thesis, so I wrote a little 4x07 drabble (well, 2000 word drabble). Not really spoilery? But behind the scenes speculationy. This makes it abundantly clear I have no idea what's going to happen, but boy am I looking forward to it!_

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 ** _So you, my dear, shouldn't fear what lies below_**

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Emma was trying with all her might to not cry. She was gripping the steering wheel so forcefully that her fingers were beginning to throb in time with the pounding of her heart, and Emma was trying _so_ hard not to cry.

 _Breathe, damn it, breathe._

The first time it had happened she hadn't really thought much about it. She was more surprised than anything, made a mental note to talk to Regina about it, but hadn't really thought it was any cause for concern. She had been standing in the middle of the street, the chill on her skin a stark contrast between the heat in her cheeks and the warmth emanating from the pirate on her lips. She had been so mad at him – then again, had she really? – so mad at herself and more anxious than anything else.

"Emma, sweetheart –" the endearment was new, and it ripped her resolve (but not her stubbornness) to shreds. That didn't stop her from yelling at him though. She had asked him to be patient and he had graciously, willingly complied. However, this time, as she stood there in the middle of town telling him about that little inch of her that he didn't know from her foster home days, she wondered if she'd said too much.

She couldn't find it in herself to regret it. She trusted him too much.

"You can't do that, you _can't_ – not if this is to work, Killian, I – I _need_ this to work."

One minute they were arguing, the next he was crashing into her with so much need that she, just for a moment, pretended that the feeling wasn't crushing her heart.

The next minute they were standing in the hallway of Granny's seemingly transported, limbs still tautly wrapped around one another. It was only the sudden lack of cool air surrounding them that even alerted her to their new location. They both eased back from each other a little, three hands still firmly lodged around each other. Sitting in the front seat of her car now, breathing still far from controlled, she could remember the sudden feeling of panic that she had felt. How had she forgotten that panic? Then it occurred to her.

It was the look he had given her.

They stood there in the dimly lit, kitschly decorated hallway, and he had smiled at her. It was so open, and amused, and _playful_ that that instant anxiety had just disappeared.

"Well, at least this time, you didn't separate man from hook," lifting his hook from its position on her hip, he paused it beside their faces, lifting his eyebrow in an absurd manner, and Emma burst into a grin.

The first time it had happened, she had been fine.

The second time, less so.

She had felt the panic rising in her throat, and the feeling of frustration burnt through her veins, pricking each of her fingers. Emma was no stranger to the feeling of anxiety, but something was different, something was overwhelming her. Everything just seemed to be this endless series of crises and disasters that she was losing her steadfastness. She tensed her hands into tight balls, shaking them a little in an attempt to not only get a literal grip on herself, but to control the fear that was threatening to cloud her mind.

The reaction had been almost instantaneous. Apparently, the rising boiling feeling hadn't simply been her emotions, but her magic, and shaking her fists had shattered every light bulb and every item made of glass in the Sheriff's station with a burst of bright electricity.

The sound must have been loud, because the next thing she knew was that she was running out of the station to be met by her family, Gold, Belle, Elsa and Killian. She did not want to see any of them. Her blood still bursting with anxiety and searing with magic, she felt like a cornered animal, cornered by herself, stuck within her own damn walls. Seeing these people that she cared about seeing her so vulnerable – Henry seeing her so unstable – was honestly the last thing that she wanted.

The third time it happened it was even worse.

"Emma, are you alright?" Her father called rushing over to her.

She knows she said something in reply. Knows that her mother spoke to her. Knows that Killian had said something reassuringly to her left, but she couldn't recall any of it now. Her magic had been – and was still – pounding in her ears and she had wanted to cry. She was trying desperately not to cry. All she could picture now was the image of her father noticing where a shard of glass had cut her, the image of David and Killian both lunging forward to check her, and the desperate fear that if either of them touched her she would burst and take them all with her.

It hadn't seemed to matter. As Killian had reached her, she had shouted for them to let her go, and that's when it had happened. She pulled her arm back and the movement of her arm had brought the nearest lamp post crashing to the ground in a flicker of sparks.

Then she noticed her father lying on the ground.

She had no idea if he'd leapt out of the way to save himself, or he'd been hit by the light but Emma's heart had stopped, and had risen in her throat as though to choke her. She froze. Mary Margaret, Henry and Killian had all darted to David's side to make sure he was okay.

He was fine. She knew he was fine. Could see it with her own eyes, but suddenly the words were in her head as though the fear and the magic that had threatened to cloud her brain had seeped in without her noticing and planted words of doubt.

 _What if he hadn't leapt out of the way? It's your magic that has done this._

 _What if?_

 _What if._

She looked at Killian. She often looked at Killian, that was no secret. The two of them frequently seeking the other out, the two of them looking for answers in each others eyes.

He saw the fear too clearly in her eyes this time. He rose from his crouched position next to her father, carefully attempting to find the right words. However, this time, all Emma could see was caution, wariness – and it frightened her even more. He was looking at her and mirroring her own thoughts, with one subtle difference - she was cautious of herself, and he was cautious of how to deal with the rising panic on her face.

"Emma, love, he's fine. Don't –"

As he spoke, a choked – _and damn it teary_ – sort of 'no' stuttered out of her throat.

She ran.

She couldn't handle this, she had nearly hurt her father, and had given them all reason to be wary of her. To fear her. As she feared herself.

So she ran. Not just emotionally, but physically. As always.

She was mad at herself for it, but stood by the decision all the same.

Sitting in her beat up old beetle she could still hear the sound of her mother pleading with her that it was okay, and the sound of Henry – _oh God, Henry_ \- calling after her.

Emma was determined not to cry, and repositioned her grip.

Suddenly, there was the tap of metal on glass. She spun in shock to see Killian standing outside the door of her car. She probably shouldn't have been surprised to see him, but the moment she did she felt the panic in her heart increased ten fold. She turned away from him and focused her eyes back on her steering wheel. Although she was tempted to drive away from him, the short distance she had driven to get away from the whole scene had not been her best idea. Her hands had shook and her nerves too alert and frazzled to really be driving. So she sat there and pretended he wasn't there.

"Emma, get out of the car," his voice a mixture between sadness and concern, and a different sort of tension crept into her heart.

 _God damn this man._

"Go back, Killian," keeping it clipped and strong, she hoped that being coarse with him would keep him away – _keep him safe_.

Emma was trying desperately not to cry.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him open his mouth to say something, but he seemed to decide against it. Instead, he chose to lean against the side of the car, crossing his arms, and sighing at the same time.

Twenty minutes he stood there.

Twenty whole minutes.

She hadn't looked at him, or spoken to him in that whole time, but the man was so determined all of the time, and apparently so determined to reason with her. Not that it would do any good at this stage, and still he stood there without quarrel. She had been paying so much attention to him standing there and wondering when he would give into her stubborn nature, that she had barely registered that her grip on the steering wheel had loosened.

Or that her breathing had regulated. Or that the magic pulsating had eased.

Sadly, while these things had let her be for now, the fear and pain in her heart at the thought of David and Henry – hell, _everyone_ \- had not diminished.

Taking a deep breath, Emma gripped onto her anger, and opened the car door, slamming it shut.

"What, the hell, do you think you're doing?"

"Me? What on earth do you think you're doing?"

He lifted off the side of the car, determined to continue meeting her anger with a gentle irritation.

"Removing the problem."

"Emma, you are not a threat- "

" _Not a threat_?! Did you even see what happened back there? I practically threw a lamp post at my own father, at you, for coming near me."

"It was an accident, Emm-"

"And how does that make it _any_ better?! An accident makes it worse, I have no control over an accident!"

He didn't say anything in response to that and she suddenly felt incredibly uncomfortable with the way he was reading her, understanding her fear. His gaze flickered to her hands, resolutely perched on both of her hips, and suddenly she knew what he was thinking. He was thinking of how he had reached for her, grasped her, and she had responded in shouts and consequently lost control of her magic.

"Elsa requested that if- _when_ you're calm you should speak to her."

His eyes moved back away from her right hand and rose to meet her eyes. She met them with her own, and didn't like what she saw there. She saw pain, and she saw caution – but she also saw loving determination, and belief. Emma wasn't sure which she was afraid of more.

They could have been staring at each other for seconds or minutes for all Emma was concerned. The more they looked at each other, the more breaths she took while doing so, the more she calmed and the more the fear in her heart grew – an annoying contradiction of feelings.

When Emma next spoke, though her words were stubborn and angry, her voice was shaky and unsure.

"Fine."

With a soft exhale of breath, he shook his head, then set his gaze back on her right hand. Timidly yet steadily, he extended his own hand, palm upward in invitation, meeting her gaze once more. She hated that he was suddenly so unsure of himself, so unsure of whether to touch her. She wanted him to touch her - _God, did she ever_ – but she was not going to apologise for wanting distance earlier. This man was becoming far too much to her, and her whole being ached for any part of him that was unsure.

Emma cocked her head to the side a little, settling him with a look that simply said 'of course', before placing her hand in his own (squeezing it lightly at the same time).

The smile he gave her in return was relieved, and as the hand-to-hand contact produced an innocent thrumming in her heart, he lifted the back of her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle but firm kiss there.

Killian cleared his throat.

"Ready, Swan?"


	2. Almost at a whisper

_A/N: So, the other day I said I wanted to write poems about Colin's little cutie ears, and I guess this is the next best (and somewhat less creepy) thing._

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 ** _Heard them stirring_**

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They were casting tiny shadows over his face, giving his perennial 5 o'clock shadow a taste of its own medicine.

And it was distracting.

Also, entirely his fault, due to the angle his head was at, completely trying to avoid the incoming sun, and the shell of his ear created its own little chiaroscuro in the half lit stillness of her room. Emma's eyes were heavy (blame it on the morning), her limbs were heavy (blame it on the night before) – and yet her heart was achingly light (it was so unfamiliar). She pulled her arm up from underneath the covers, curling it into her chest and her chin, embracing this moment for what it undeniably was –

 _Quiet._

It was still heart-achingly early, the kind of early where very little yet exists in the world - except the easing sigh of the ocean outside, the indistinct cawing of the seagulls, and the steady slumberous heaving of the chest of the man beside her.

There was so much between the two of them now, far from _a one time thing_ or _just as I am done with you_ , or even (and she'd never let him live it down) _goodbye._ The scraps and scrapes and fairy tale nonsense took up so much of their everyday – yet it was all completely forgotten now. Somehow, between the cracking of the dawn and the awareness of morning there was very little to make them remember beanstalks, and curses, villains, or stolen hearts.

But in this in-between world there were still ears.

It was also a time of ambiguous weather; Emma couldn't decide whether it was warm or cold. The briskness in the air confused her because she was definitely warm, the steady heat was sneaking in through the Eastern windows, making her feel like a rugged up lizard or a lethargic cat on Summer soaked concrete.

And the pair of toes curled into her own created a whole different kind of warmth through her veins.

Emma yawned a bit, feeling the crack of her jaw in her chest, appreciating the simple fact that she was awake before him (for once). His arms were similarly curled under his bare torso, tucked in a way that made him seem several centuries younger. The light didn't help – that early golden glow, muted; implying the sun was also sleepy and too tired for the hour that it was. Stranger still was the way the light itself did strange things to his skin, blurring the cracks and wrinkles, melding the years in his face together.

( _My youthful glow_ – strangely she knew what he meant now.)

And yet it kept casting these intriguing shadows.

As handsome and achingly attractive as she'd always found him, there was a certain beauty in seeing him like this – content, warm, asleep. Perhaps he too was like a cat – self-aware and sauntering during its waking hours, but in a drowsy embrace he was malleable into something much softer.

Emma lifted the hand that had been curled against herself to subconsciously touch him, borne from that urge that was always lingering within her (especially when he was within reach). Her hand froze however, hovering between the two of them as she realised what it was it was doing – freezing because she did not want to wake him – and then her temptation got the better of her.

Using the tip of her finger she traced the soft outside edge of his ear.

She didn't know what it was about the damn things but the shape of them had always reminded her of an elf (or perhaps that was the _I'm the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming_ talking). The lines and edges of it sharp but somehow delicate, and she wasn't aware that she had been touching him for all that long (nail edge charting from his jewel studded lobe, around the curving crook, until lingering – far too long – along the pointed round of its top) until a rumble low in his chest startled her from her reverence.

"Swan, what are you doing?" The grumble was quiet and rough, half muffled into the pillow under him, eyes still firmly shut to the world.

She didn't pause in her ministrations. If anything, she restrained herself less, using her finger and her thumb to follow the shape, pinching the tip with a gentle hand.

"Nothing."

Her voice mirrored his: whispered, deep, croaking – soft.

She leant forwards a little, propping herself up gently, swapping the hand she was using to touch him (invading more of his space), and mapping further the topography of his ear. Killian's face was still motionless, but one of his feet moved instead, hooking a leg into hers and increasing the warming comfort that was theirs.

It was even possible in this gentle sunrise to forget that she'd nearly lost him – to his nemesis, to his self-consciousness, to his weakness, to his desire to be better. It was impossible to think of such things with his leg around her leg, her fingers dancing round his ear.

(Although, it was entirely possible that the veneration with which she touched him now was affected by all of the above.)

"May I ask what is so fascinating about my ear, then?"

His eyes opened (just barely), watching her face in a blueish squint, as her own attention was drawn to the appreciative ministrations of her hand. Her fingers drifted a bit, thumb still grazing his ear, while the rest of her fingers explored further, scratching the hair that dwelt behind it.

"They stick out."

He answered with a wounded scoff, and she caught a glimpse of a scrunched up nose before he dug the thing - and the rest of his face - deeper into the pillow, further and further from the now almost streaming light. (She chuckled at him, so quietly, that it could only really be heard in the calm of the bed).

"In a can't-miss-it kind of way."

She leant over him rather groggily then - a reminder to herself of just how tired she was - to firmly kiss the top of his ear, cupping his jaw and grazing his temple with her lips as she went. He hummed in an endearing sort of way, still grumbly, still croaking, and buried in his pillow.

As she fell back onto her own patch of mattress, with far less delicately than she had been treating him, she watched a lingering small smile settle into his face. Emma, giving in to his unspoken sleep-in demands, pulled the doona back over her shoulders, only to find him reaching for her fingers moments later, threading the hand with hers - either out of affection or distrust for its motives.

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Emma was enticed out of almost-sleep an hour later, his nose in the dell between her ear and her neck, muttering something about vengeance.


	3. Until the ribbon breaks

_Prompt from emmasinthebooknow that I must have done something terrible in a past life to receive:_

"I need BOW BACKSTORY" - a Lieutenant Killian Jones wearing a ribbon in his hair oneshot.

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 _Until the Ribbon Breaks_

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He lights the match cautiously, only dimly aware of the glow it casts about the room, competing timidly with the yellow light of the rising sun. Neither flame bring any warmth to the room, but neither of them are lit for that purpose this morning – and anyway, his focus is elsewhere.

There are noises outside in the corridor, the shouting of orders, the bustle of boots on oak boards and he knows he needs to be out there; needs to get out of this airless and dank room, off the squeaky springboard mattress, onto the ship; needs to be less sentimental.

With a careful thumb and a gentle forefinger, Killian smooths the ribbon, focusing on just how the silkiness of the obverse side disagrees vehemently in touch to the coarser reverse. He spends too long looking at it, too long remembering – until suddenly the match reaches the end of its tether and burns his other hand.

"Bloody hell!" He drops the extinguished match and it falls to the ground with a plinking kind of sound, swearing just above a whisper before placing the wounded fingers on his tongue, easing the blaze.

Part of him can't help but wonder if this was a stupid decision. He's bound to receive a little ribbon ribbing, either that or he's bound to lose it in a gust of wind - and yet ever since the idea crept into his head he hasn't known how to let it go. He'd seen a small boy a few days earlier, holding on to what he was sure was his nanny's hand, and he was bubbly and carefree (and nothing at all like Killian) but the baby blue ribbon that tied his hair together was an image that struck more than one chord.

Then after he'd seen it once, he seemed to see it everywhere – a dandy here, a gutter rat there - it seemed as though it being on the back-burner of his mind created new visions of it wherever he went.

Killian struck another match, picking the ribbon up again and this time he doesn't hesitate with memories, running the small flame along one of the far ends of the ribbon, watching as the fraying edges curl and shrivel, taking its wax coating with it. He doesn't burn it much, only the smallest of amounts; only enough to reinforce its edges. This time he doesn't allow the match to reach its end before he shakes it, rendering the stick useless, and then repeats the process on the other end – match, flame, ribbon's edge.

And even when he's finished he stalls, caught between nostalgia and a hard place. It isn't until another shout from outside, one that sounds distantly like " _Jones, where are you sailor?"_ that he drags himself from his revere. The bed creaks behind him as he leaves it, crossing the incredibly short distance to stand in front of the mirror, staring at his barely recognisable form.

His pants so white that it seems ridiculous, and impractical, and a distant voice in the recesses of his mind wonders how long it'll take before the linen is covered in dirt and he will need to bleach it. Or perhaps, in contrast to his black shirt and the black vest he now dons, he wonders whether the dirt on his pants will stand out at all.

The imagine glaring back at him reminds him of Liam, reminds him of the first day he left, and though the similarities are there on display, he feels nothing like him. For starters, his hair is completely different.

 _"Chop it off, or tie it back,"_ \- those had been the orders, and observing now how his hair tangles about his shoulders (and that's without the wind and the salt and the days lost on the ocean), cutting it all off may have been the more practical choice.

Running his hands through his hair (freshly calloused fingers, unused to the ropes and rough labour of the ships) he pulls it back from his face, and though the tips of his ears still hide behind shorter strands, he notes how much younger he appears without it straggling around his face. Satisfied that it appears respectable, he wraps a black band around the hair, settling it firmly in place at the nape of his neck.

It takes him three tries to get the bow right, and tight enough to not fly away - one attempt for as many matches as lay wasted and blackened on the floor.

No one comments on it.

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While men wearing ribbons in their hair was not necessarily an unheard of fashion statement, neither was it common, and Killian had at least expected a snide remark here or there from his new ship mates. He was certainly mocked for other things, such as his reluctance to drink on board, and his almost annoying level of insisting good form. In the end, he chalked it up to the fact that he got on well with everyone, to the point that the bow was barely a thing they noticed.

Actually, the only comment he'd ever had was from his superior officer who joked that it clashed with his little chapeau, the tassel of it often hitting the bow as though in bitter rivalry for decorative space.

The only person who ever said anything was Liam.

"Fancy seeing you here, brother."

Killian had been tying a knot at the time, securing a large haul of ropes around the mast, when he strode on deck, fully fitted in his lieutenant's gear, cocked bicorne included. Liam's smile was broad, his shoulders broader, and a boisterous enthusiasm which the rules and regulations of service had never rid him of.

It must have been several months since he'd last seen him, and certainly not since Killian had joined the navy. The hug he received from his brother barely reflected the absence and the joy each brother felt at seeing the other, as they wrapped their arms and clung tightly around shoulders.

(And though the hug was brief, it didn't seem like it to the brothers.)

As they pulled away, Killian noticed a strange, almost pained looked upon Liam's face. There was the small flick of Liam's finger, and Killian didn't need to have been able to see the movement, because he felt the bow round his hair wobble, if only slightly.

(He'd mastered the taut knot some months back after he nearly lost it overboard.)

"Nice touch," Liam was never one to show his emotions, and he was cheerful, and his cheeks were red with the cool breeze blowing about the docks – but there was a wistful look in his eye that told Killian that his brother knew exactly where the ribbon had come from. "I thought I was the sentimental one in the family."

"It keeps my hair up."

Liam says nothing about his lie, smiling smugly and knowingly in only a way that older brothers seemed to know how - portraying a gentle sort of arrogance that comes with having more years, and yet it was not quite condescending.

(Not quite all knowing.)

With the sling of an arm around his shoulder, Liam pushed him off deck and onto dry land, in the hopes of encouraging him to indulge in more than one tankard of beer.

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He knows she saw it.

When she arrives at his door one morning, two coffees in hand, she eyes the thing sitting on his dresser, even though she only does it briefly, only opens her mouth a bit as though to say something –

But he kisses her instead, an easy sort of greeting, leading her out the door and easily distracting her from her enquiry.

However, if there was one thing he knew about Emma, it was that she would have filed the curiosity away for later consideration, as she did with all things - good, bad, and in between. And he saw it, every single time she came to his room, he saw the little sideways glance. Not that she was often in his room (much to his chagrin), but when she was, it felt like the elephant in the centre of it. Until, one day, when she looked tired and beaten, as though the coffee in her hand wasn't working its usual magic, she blurted it out.

"Okay, I've gotta know, why do you have a ribbon in with your things?"

Honestly, for all his knowing that she knew, he had never really known what he would say when she asked, and he a flustered a bit, scratching the underside of his jaw in ill ease.

(He would tell the truth, obviously, but it was a little more complicated than that.)

Killian walks over to the dresser it had been living on ever since he had arrived back in Storybrooke, sitting almost on top of Liam's old military insignia, as the pockets of this realm's clothing were inadequately sized for such things. He picks the thing up gently, only too aware of the delicacy that comes with its age.

But when he places it in her hands, supplementing it for her coffee, he's not sure she knows what to do with it, and still she handles it with almost as much reverence as he always had, even without knowing what it was.

"I wore it every day I was in the navy – I had a pony tail at the time."

She wants to laugh, he can see it in the crinkle of her nose, the way it bends a little, and really it wouldn't be out of place with the light delivery of his words. Instead a broad and definitely cheeky smile spreads across her features. However, he can also see the confusion in the sentimentality of the object in her eyes, knowing that if he still had it three hundred years later it must have meant something.

"You - Captain Hook, ruthless pirate - wore a ribbon in your hair?" She'd taken the teasing route, a quiet and low smirk in her tone, looking about his neck as though trying to picture him with long hair.

"I'll have you know, Swan, pony tails were very fashionable at the time."

"Sure they were."

She's still running the material through her fingers, the satin more faded and the edges more frayed than they had once been; what once had been a deep and rich navy blue, had with each year become a dirtier and paler colour (no matter how much he tried to shield it from time).

He considers not saying it, considers letting this little tid bit be enough, but there's something in the way she's holding it, so carefully without knowing what it means, that somehow brings the cracks to light and somehow holds it all together at the same time. It is these contradictory feelings taking place in his chest that makes him sigh out the words - he needs to say it; needs to let it be known.

"It was my mother's."

Emma stops running it through her fingers almost instantly, and the ache and the delicacy in her eyes is almost more painful for him than the memory itself, as she stares opened-eyed and unconsciously open-mouthed.

Killian never talks about his parents – he rarely talks about Liam if he can help it – and she can see his hesitation, his own bloody vulnerability is reflected in the look on her face. The feeling hurts. He'd say there was a storm raging inside him somewhere, remnants of his own history swirling and cutting restlessly inside him, but it's nothing so violent - rather more like the rising tide, filling him more with every thought, drowning him in his own ocean.

She says nothing.

Emma simply places a hand on either side of his face, and kisses him – and it's as soft and as voiceless as the moment, but it's also strong and long and it takes an age for them to draw away (because they don't want to, and they're not sure that they can). The sadness, and comfort, and the silent _"thank you for telling me_ " are present in the way her lips shake somewhat against his, and there is a tremor in the way she stands before him. He can feel her empathy, her affection, and her comprehension as she parts for air, and while he knows this moment is for him, Killian can't help but feel the pang of their kindred pain - and so his arms find her waist, anchoring them with hook and hand. _  
_

And the ribbon is still between her fingers, pressed assuredly against his cheek and her palm. He could read into it if he wanted, could analyse the remnants of his past gripped firmly - securely - in her own clutches and the way she presses both to him in the here and present moment.

But he doesn't. This time he quite simply shuts his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, willing the thoughts of years gone by to transmit to her that way instead.

"I didn't know you were so sentimental," her voice may be sure and unwavering (and still taunting), but she speaks them softly, so softly they do not carry across the room and he can hear his own aching in her words.

He knows what she's doing, knows that she's repeating herself and earlier conversations, and yet he also knows that this is her way of comforting him without prying; her way of understanding. Emma of all people understands those few small things that are hidden away from others, hidden almost from themselves (treasured, loathed, needed).

She's always been far too easy to read, and it is because - far more often than they are not - they are alike. Like the shoelace that lives around her wrist, and the key ring around her neck, they are each marked with more than tattoos – and yet they would still deny it until they ran out of breath.

"I'm not."

The ribbon catches on the stubble of his jaw as she touches her lips to his, once again, to tell him he's a terrible liar.


	4. Claimed by the sea

_A/N: I haven't been able to write anything for weeks apparently my creativity is also on hiatus, so this is just me, flexing my creative muscles. You know what they say about bikes and horses._

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In those few peaceful weeks, Emma and Killian go boating for the first time.

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 _Claimed By The Sea_

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It seemed absurd to her that she didn't know how to do any of this. Not a single thing.

She knew how to stand on a boat and watch as everyone else scrambled about with instruction, but that was about it.

Until now, that is.

Her toes sink deeper into sand, and the pants that she'd worn are submerged and clinging to her as far up as her knees. She's sure it's meant to annoy her, and she's probably supposed to curse the way the denim, that is rolled up to her calves, will still be sticking and chaffing for however long she keeps them on.

But the water is cold and somehow appeasing, as though each ripple of water that contours about her legs is claiming her as its own. The day isn't too cold either, even though the sun has hidden itself between deep grey clouds, lingering hesitantly just beyond reach. The whole thing seems strange, how the light is muted and the air similarly subdued of warmth. Normally, Emma would find the cold would go straight through flesh to find chattering bone, but there was none of that today, and instead, something quite different she couldn't put her finger on hung in the air, overtaking most of the chill.

( _"Are you sure it's not going to storm the moment we get out there?" "Not a chance, love, trust me – I know what I'm doing." "Yeah, well, I suppose after a few hundred years you'd've picked up a thing or two."_ )

In the past, all she'd had to do was simply walk onto the boat and that was that, but no, of course the damned thing hadn't been moored, and of course the thing had still been on the trailer waiting impatiently to be let loose down the slip. That was where she now found herself moving slowly, though with determined steps, at the bottom of the slipway, avoiding as much as she could the sharp edges of shell and concrete that lay scattered about her heels.

Emma struggled to get in place behind but mostly to the side, struggling to manoeuvre herself through the thick tide – and it was his lopsided smile that spurred her on, all arrogance and excitement as he stood between her car and the boat, ready to let it fly into the water.

( _"And who exactly does this boat belong to anyway?" "A friend." "A friend? Right, cause that's believable." "I have my methods of persuasion."_ )

The motorboat, apparently too small to be worth the mooring fee (and yet still big enough that standing beside it Emma could not see over the edge), nearly knocked her aside as it sped, clankering its chain through the winch of the trailer and falling with a force she hadn't expected, surging away in a sideways float as it hit water. Emma had been told to just hold on to the side of it while he had (attempted to anyway) ease it in, but never having done it before the momentum and the awkward wading through the tide, meant the boat got away from her. It didn't seem to matter how tightly she grappled with the metal around the edge of the boat, or how stubbornly she dug her feet into the sand beneath her – she lost control of the thing.

His only response was to laugh at the frazzled look on her face, more than thigh high in water now, as the boat drifted further and further out of reach – and damn him the smile was contagious, because she couldn't seem to find it in herself to be annoyed.

(Not when he was so stupidly boyish and bouncy.)

When a sensible solution was mentioned ( _"Go park your yellow vessel, love – I'll fetch the boat."_ ) he made it look so damn easy, standing back on the shore, wet up to his torso, rope of the boat wound comfortably around one hand. He waggled a look at her as she came back, Emma walking awkwardly over rocks and bitumen, waggling a look that itched a wrinkle in her nose and yes, this had definitely been one of her better ideas.

(Getting into the boat was significantly easier than getting the boat into water, Killian's hook round the metal bars of the bow, and a spare hand for her to graze as she hoisted herself over the top of it.

With a lot less grace than she wanted.)

His smile never wavered. It sat there, immovable, from the moment she asked why he would always take Henry out, and not her; smiled as she'd turned up in a windproof vest and a dimple in each cheek; smiled as the keys and the motor made disagreeing sounds until finally – and just in time to avoiding hitting a rock – the blades hit blue swells with enough energy to propel them forward.

Emma couldn't say she blamed him for the smile, not when the jerky movement of the old motor stuttered into motion, nor when the air about them picked up with their speed and carried her hair behind her. There had always been this niggling of salt water in her own veins, one she had never been able to explain and never really acted upon either beyond sitting beside it (lacked the skill and the opportunity to learn, she supposed), but it was there, as inexplicable and as permanent as Killian himself seemed to be.

The boat swam beyond the break walls of the harbour, suddenly encompassing them with a lot more air and a lot more sea spray as they bounced harshly against the oncoming waves, water splashing and edging around the windscreen with little effort and Emma gripped a little more tightly to the edges beneath her seat.

(They would not have been able to hear one another if they'd even tried.)

Yet, the roughness and the chaos only seemed to make him happier, as though with each rough gust about his face the worries that hung about his shoulders simply took off with the wind to lie dead in the water somewhere.

This, this is why she had wanted to come.

To see sailor reunited; to ease her own quells.

The air was just so poignantly crisp, as though each breath freed her of something indistinct and the sound of nothing but it and the water hitting boat, swishing and thudding – well, the whole thing was oddly magical. It was just nature, and a trip in a small boat with a still leather-studded man, but there was so much in it that she just couldn't pin point.

Hence, the kind of magic, because the whole thing tingled beneath her skin as her own magic did.

(And the feeling ached with each lunge of the boat against choppy wave.)

And so if the feeling of being out here was so strong and affecting for her, she could only imagine what it was doing to the man who had sworn himself to it his whole life.

He was standing, gripping with hook and hand onto the steering wheel and peering over the fibreglass windscreen. There was too much noise to bother speaking, exacerbated by both motor and mother nature, but she didn't need to ask to know he felt the same. Each breath he took was deep and he sighed into each and every one, as though it replenished his entire being with something – and that smile still sat on his face, even if it was somewhat lacking its original bounce.

That smile – the one she couldn't (wouldn't) stop focusing on – had faded (or perhaps the better word was 'eased') into this contented expression. His eyes open, his stance a strange mixture of strength and relaxation.

It was different seeing him like this – more in his element than ever, and yet somehow more vulnerable than ever. He was so adept at everything, and so adaptable (they were on a motor boat for crying out loud) but she knew how plainly he needed to simply breathe in the sea air without the motionless ground beneath him. And his dependence on this sea-stuff was so plainly written across his face that she couldn't stop looking at it.

More than that, she wanted to be with him when he felt it; wanted to share it.

(To double-check.)

Their speed eased after about fifteen minutes of blustering wind, allowing Emma a moment to rein in the tangles of her hair a bit. He'd kept to the coast, woods and rock and forest waving past them as they went, but he seemed to find the spot he wanted not too far from a small and sandy shore.

Without saying a word to her, he opened the latch in the screen, digging into a hole filled with rope and chain before throwing the anchor overboard easing the tether through the curve of his hook, small chinking noises sounding each time it hit metal, and entrusting the current to secure the grapnel on seabed.

They barely said anything ( _"Pass me that rag would you, love?"_ ) a comfortable sort of bubble around them in which the sea and the air spoke for them, and Emma was happy to let it. The sudden decrease in sound and wind had lulled them into a strange space, and even when he jumped back down beside her from the bow, Killian seemed so focused on it – that big briny blue - lost in a language she didn't doubt they both knew. When she stood up to join him at the helm his hand found the back of her arm without even looking at her, drawing nonsensical patterns on it.

(The gesture meant nothing much at all, and that in itself meant everything.)

God, it was becoming impossible to do this, Emma thought, as she rubbed her cheeks frantically to chase away the numbness that the cool wind had put there. The decision to dive in it with him had made it so hard to do anything else but swim, and sometimes, when she felt like being a ridiculous romantic sap, she felt as though she was herself a kind of sailor swearing herself to him a kind of sea.

(Its gaze still blue; its substance largely water; as violent and as calm and as consistent.)

He was leaning over the windshield, the boat not moving enough to do anything more than gently sway her and him and not stumble her feet, as Emma's body edges closer of its own accord, fingers finding his neck and hair and as her chin finds shoulder.

(It was impossible not to dive, it was impossible not to reach and to touch and to be less than three feet from him.)

Killian's hooked hand settled on the windscreen, most probably scratching the outer edge, but his other hand drifting between them and under the gap between jean and shirt, edging her closer to him.

She knows he knows – Emma's not entirely sure what knowledge it is that they're sharing (their sea, their moods, their hearts), only that whatever it is they are in sync, and he accepts this affectionate position on his shoulder without even drawing attention to it. His eyes are bluer out here, light and colour refracting on the water even in the dull light, and his fingers linger, tracing still more patterns on her bare skin.

Killian kisses her with little more warning but the nudge of his nose to push her off his shoulder, and she willingly obliges, moving between him and the wheel, hand immovable from the juncture of his neck and hair.

He tastes no different out here, but his movements are a little absentminded, his lips a little calmer, as though the tug of tides has pulled away something from him and left him with this – and she can't help it, she breaks the kiss and the pull of him with a smile. It's such a broad smile and she can feel her face tug and burrow around her cheekbones.

He's so joyful and peaceful, that it clutches at her in an unusually satisfying way, and that is why she smiles. They are both trying so hard (and also not trying very hard at all) to fall into this thing without knocking and scraping into their walls on the way – and it is working, and he does not seem to regret it at all.

There's a soft enquiring scrunch of brow on his face before he croaks a gentle "What is it?". She doesn't answer at first, taking both scruffy cheeks in both hands, kissing him so strongly (accidentally pouring all emotion into it) that she tilts into him at the hips (or he tilts into her, it's not clear, and really, it's probably the sea's doing).

There are still two hands on his face when she breaks and stays close, and still a confused look upon his face, but his smile lives on – and he sighs as though the kiss replenishes his entire being with something. Emma doesn't bother to tell him why she'd smiled so broadly, why her heart is so overwhelmed with his happiness, and the way it coaxed out her own and seemed to find its outlet in her grin. There's too much about seeing him out here, the way he looks so at home –

And the way he seems to look at the water the exact same way he would always look at her.

That was what had done it really, because somewhere there was that fear inside her that he'd leapt so high (too high) without knowing where he'd find his feet; sold his ship – would he live to regret it?

And yet, the gentle lap of the coast against the side of the boat was not reminding him of what he was missing, but reminding him of what he would still have. There was no regret on his face, no disappointment, and while Emma still found it hard to believe she could be enough for anyone, she was no longer pretending to herself that it wasn't scribbled across every crevice of his face.

So she doesn't tell him (he'll probably figure it out anyway), letting her hands slide down his chest into a tangle of hair and shirt collar, opting instead to lock eyes with him, tongue in cheek.

"Why do I get the feeling I've just been kidnapped, never to see land again?"

He chuckles lightly in response, hand finding itself in the wind-strewn mess of her hair, and she sighs, filling in her lungs with salty air (when it all feels like him anyway).

"Well, I am a pirate, Swan."

"My parents are royalty, I bet they'd pay handsomely for my return."

"Aye, I doubt they could meet my demands."

His voice is so serious where hers is low and flirtatious, so lost in a daze of his own and she'd be worried if he didn't look so stupidly serene.

"Oh really?"

There's no point trying to coax him out of it, he's playing along but his heart's not in it, it's distracted – distracted by her, distracted by the sea, and the strangely bright and quiet mood that envelops and sways them. Killian is looking so fiercely at her, tongue thinking between his lips, that she's almost scared of what he might say.

"I fear I am the one abducted, and not the other way around."

And he's still so serious, and she longs to bring him out of this spell, this emotional trap that they have both walked into (if only she knew how to get out herself), and she wants to scoff, to laugh at how overly emotional the words are – but his eyes have found hers with a quiet intensity and his lips are _still_ upturned in a kind of happy resignation.

There are two things sitting on her tongue: one is witty, the other far, far too meaningful (a meaningfulness to rival his own).

She says neither.

She can't quite bring herself to say anything at all, and her fingers have silenced their grip on his clothes and she's more than certain she's gaping if only a bit. His fingers, however, still stroke the outside edge of her face, winding and tugging gently on strands of hair as he tangles in them. The movement is creating little tingling sensations on her scalp that linger long after his fingers move on, and with the sea around them continuing to whisper and hiss encouragements (and to cast its net around them) she feels a familiar and a now near constant twang in her chest.

So, Emma kisses him again, deliberately and as languidly as they did before, instead using the drag of her lips and his teeth to speak her thoughts, hoping (knowing) he'll get the message regardless.

(But he changes the angle to a deeper one, his nose brushing against cheek bone, and she forgets what it was she was trying to say at all.)

.

Fortunately, getting the boat back up the slipway is much easier.

And the next time they go out, Emma is far more prepared for the force of the enthusiastically falling boat – and even though she braces herself, the next time they go, she completely falls over as the boat nudges her off the slip and floats further into the harbour –

And the only sound louder than Killian's laughter is her own.


	5. Slipping under, sliding down

_A/N: I wanted to explore angsty falling (rather than fallen) Emma. Shout out to Liz for baby sitting me in my writer's block._

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 _Slipping Under, Sliding Down (All I Need is a Certain Trigger)_

.

She can't breathe.

Sure, her chest is rising and falling, and her lungs are doing what they do best, but still it feels as though nothing is happening.

There is no silent relief of oxygen coursing through her, no lightening of anything as she exhales.

What there is, is a pounding, rising feeling in her throat, in her fingers, the pain grating from where her nails meet skin and pulling to her face until she feels sallow. But, mostly it's her head making it seem as though each hair on her scalp is out of place and prickly - and it doesn't feel as though it's going to let up any time soon. The weight ( _God, the weight_ ) of it is heavy and it's leaden - molten lead more like, seeping and scorching into each crevice of her skull, down her spine and –

She tries not to focus on it, curling her feet underneath her instead, running her hands tentatively through her hair, soothing the hairs into place and reminding them that, yes, that is where they are supposed to be. Though, it proves ridiculously impossible to ignore, the oppressiveness of it slipping with ease and claws into every vein, each current and pulse of blood tightening in her neck until she feels as though she is choking.

And she can't _breathe_ , and at this point it's so overwhelming that she'd happily make a deal with the devil to get rid of it because she doesn't know how it got there, or how to make it gone.

Just that she wants to let it out.

It's never happened like that before.

He is moving somewhere in front of her, cautious of each creaking board, but her eyes are too tightly shut to actually see him ( _red, she can still see red behind her lids_ ) and only the scuffling on the floorboards of his feet dimly register. But there are only two of them - two heels, two balls, two arches, two feet - shuffling in her parents loft. They are alone. She still refuses to open her eyes, the darkness within her lids providing some refuge from the pounding that floods her body with flows and ebbs that tingle still with that magic.

( _That_ magic, not _hers._ )

(But it was hers, but it is.)

It has been some time since Killian has actually said anything. He'd been out of breath and tucking hair away from her face when he'd found her, Emma with hands and knees to the ground, whispering questions and checking her face for injury.

(Or for something else.)

( _"Are you alright?" "Did you see where she went?" "Emma, what happened?"_ )

She hadn't really answered his questions, had only really blinked at her surroundings, the surroundings that were suddenly void of any of the queens, before resting unsteady hands on his chest as she leant into the unsteady hand holding up her jaw.

Emma wasn't entirely sure how to explain it, she would have told him if she knew how. She had been so cool, so calm, so collected – until suddenly she wasn't, being provoked this way and that until the fire burning out of her had not burnt white hot but another colour entirely.

And it'd never happened like that before and she hadn't known what to say.

He must've seen it, she reckoned, judging by how quickly he'd raced to her side, and how quiet he was being now. It was starting to grate on her, if she was being honest. The quiet that he was creating did nothing but allow her to concentrate on the anger and the restlessness curling around her heart, each beat of the organ straining against the strangling sensation.

It'd always been white. White and sometimes blinding, but always right, always a reminder of who she had finally understood she was – the saviour, the heart so pure Cora could not take it - but now?

Now it's quiet, Killian's being too quiet, and she can't hear herself for the shouting in her veins.

"Seriously, would you just stop?"

The air around her eyes as she looks up at him almost burns, and they are watering at the sting, but he hasn't even turned on the lights, standing at the linen cupboard door, pausing in his movements and eyeing her.

Maybe that look, maybe that was why she had shut her eyes. It wasn't a look of pity or fear, but one that said he was concerned wholly for what was racing (magically and mentally) through her mind.

Concern for her mind, for her heart, for the red, ominous force that had streamed out of her hands.

(Maybe there was some anger in there somewhere, but it wasn't aimed at her.)

And the look made her ache with the reality that she could feel all too well, the reality that she wanted to get rid of, the reality that she didn't want to face.

"Stop what?"

His whispered words are so hollow in the room, gently rumbling and drifting in the space between them, and yet she feels them throb in her ears. Emma does not understand why it is that her body is responding this way, as though there's a spark hammering and wedging itself into the line between and on either side of her eyes, or why there is a restless cramping pain in her arms.

Surely Regina never felt this, surely Gold never did either.

Whatever it's doing, she wants to shake her arms free from it, wishes there were a spell she could cast to counter it. Maybe that's all she needs, maybe it is stuck in there searching for an exit, maybe she should give it one.

"Whatever the hell it is you think you're doing. You're tip-toeing around me – literally."

He sighs from his position at the cupboard, meeting her wearied and cracked expression with a similar one of his own, scratching and scuffling his hair at the same time.

"Apologies, love, but you look as though the next loud noise will shatter you."

He's right, of course, he's always stupidly right. And as much as Emma wants to pretend like she's fine on the outside, like it's just magic what does it matter, she's aching and she's tired.

(And he knows her too well to bother trying to cover it up, anyway.)

(And she's scared, and it hurts.)

But also, she's sorry, and he reads the sudden change in her face, the apologetic breaking look for the abrupt comment that replaces the prickly impatient one (impatient with herself more than anything else).

Emma closes her eyes once more, but they do not fall easily now that she has opened them, and she squints to force them, struggling to keep out what little light is in the room ( _or should she be letting it in?_ ). She barely hears him move between the pulsating and the voiceless tears that now draw and tickle between her nose and cheek, until he's suddenly there sinking into the cushion beside her.

He has brought a blanket, abandoning it on the chair-arm beside him in lieu of wrapping his hook-arm around her and along the back of the settee – and Emma moves towards him willingly, needing this thing between them to mollify and whisper, so she digs the hook of her own nose into the edge of his jaw, forehead on his cheek - in apology; in comfort.

(In despair.)

Her heart beats with meaning twofold now: partly in strain and in magic, and partly due to a different kind of magic altogether, the kind that, to Emma, is equally as unfamiliar though far more welcome. And that second kind begins to fight its way into her as she lets it, forgoing anger and frustration for the simple feeling of his body pressed warmly against hers.

She is glad it is just the two of them, glad that it is his own rising and falling chest against hers, glad for that unexpected wedge in her heart that is his. And so she rests, tears - anguished ones - slipping a little from her face to the un-ironed collars of his clothes.

(These feelings, these twofold feelings are getting worse.)

But it doesn't last.

He is not settled at all, but then again, neither is she really. His body is still and unnaturally so, as though he is trying to physically embody a rock; her rock. Killian seems to know as well as she does what the meaning behind it all is, and silently tries to convey his understanding. But Emma cannot think of that, cannot settle for the clawing in her system. It is too strong, and she tries harder to draw some semblance of calm from his proximity, from his bubble, from the hand drawing nonsense on her left arm.

But she can't.

The fingers on her arm begin in equal measures to soothe and to stoke the distress in her system and she cannot make the feeling settle on one or the other. It isn't his fault, and it's most likely hers, but at least with him holding her - and with her gripping onto his vest, even with twinging fingers - Emma cannot scratch the skin until the feeling leaks away.

But she does want to scratch, wants the stubble of his to itch the pain from her forehead, wants to let loose the magic that is burning and clawing and rasping at her.

She wants to let it free.

Every inch of her is begging her to do it again, begging and wishing that maybe, just maybe if she does it one more time, she could wring this wretched feeling out of her limbs.

If she could just do it, _just one more time_.


	6. Weight of my words

_A/N: a little bit of continuation of 'that' scene ("Don't you know, Emma? It's you"), because I don't know how to get the feelings out._

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 _Weight of my words_

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There is only one thing that draws him away from her.

She is far too soft against him - soft lips, soft skin, soft hands, soft intentions - and as a result has melded herself far too deeply into every crevice of him. She has attempted to, with this kiss, fill up each crack of his vulnerability with her own, and it drowns him far too much with bits of him and her for him to let go of it for anything else.

She may only be touching him in three places - maybe four maybe five or six depending on the angle of the kiss - but he can feel her as though she is everywhere on his skin, as though every exhale and every finger leaves a trace.

Each gentle push and pull of her lips doesn't even try to convey what she is thinking - it can't though, not at the moment, he knows this of her by now. And even if he didn't know previously, the look on her face; in her eye, the disbelief seeing no trace of a lie, gave it all away - she was dumbfounded.

Dumb being the operative word, as in without words.

So she had said nothing.

Killian doesn't know what she is thinking, doesn't know what words may be slowly forming in her mind - but it doesn't matter because everything he needs to know he can tell by what she's feeling.

It's in every little touch of their noses, and her lips against his; it's present in the way her hands (one at the nape of his neck the other clinging to the leather of his side) are careful and sure and pulling him to her or latching herself to him, he's not sure there's a difference. They are listeners, the pair of them, to the world to others, and so they listen now to the meaning in each others lips; forming the outlines of words through their kiss that make no sense - the perfect symbolism for the indescribable feelings flowing through them.

And he tries to lose himself in this, and for the most part he's consumed and easily swept up by the silence filled with nothing but the two of them quietly moving with one another, but there's a fear still pounding at his doors like wolves - the fear that he will lose her. His heart and this day - this long, _long_ day - still echo with it, though it's fading with each tired resound.

Still he hears it.

In fact, his skin is still trembling, cheeks and ears burning red, thrumming in time with his anxious heart; with the anxiety of his own exposure and reality.

(And with the building, comforting thrill that is kissing Emma.

Both of them too drugged by how tender it all is to change the kiss any.)

He's surprised the words came out at all - they had spent a few breaths reluctant to come out, clawing their way with each syllable, and his throat feels raw with it. But she is subtly trembling just as much as he is, lips insistently chasing his with zero sign of urgency and every sign of quiet, understated desperation.

(Inwardly he knows that's not his own fault that she didn't know, no matter how many times he reminds her. No, that guilt lays on those who for thirty years did not understand what they had; did not understand Emma Swan.)

(And they were morons, all of them.)

They are both so fragile like this, gently swaying in the old cabin.

Her breathing, originally shallow but steady, suddenly begins to stutter, puffing sharply and harshly against his cheek, lips trembling a little more against his and -

The small sniffle and the almost inaudible noise at the back of her throat give her away - she is crying.

That is the only thing that draws him away.

And when he does pull away, he pulls away slowly, softly tugging on her lip as he does so, showing his reluctance, his gravity, his ache.

Her eyes are still closed as he opens his and what he sees breaks him twofold.

There are tears - not many, but clearly enough to shatter the pattern of her breathing. The tears that have crept down either side of her face are a stark reminder of just how unused to love she is, even with a family that fights for her and by her daily. But by the same token, his heart aches with the fact that she is crying for him - for them - each tear and kiss an expression of the pang in her heart for this - for them.

And the acceptance of her role in and as his _happy ending._

The phrase does not sound as silly to him as it might have once done.

(It can't possibly with her involved.)

Emma only opens her eyes when his hand moves from her waist to wipe the tiny glistening trails from her cheeks, thumb-pad meeting cheek bone. Her eyes are red and a shiny green from the tears, and somehow seeing him looking back at her makes her breath catch in her chest a little more, bringing new tears to swell in the lower of her lids.

(What he does not know is that his own eyes are red and still riddled with the fear he lacks the ability to shake.)

It's almost as though they have completely forgotten where they are, her hands finding his cheeks, her forehead finding his once more - but the call of _"Emma?"_ from her mother outside elicits a poignant swallow and a deep breath from her. It takes a few of these attempts at composure - the lick of her lips, a deep stumbling breath - before she can school herself enough to follow the others outside.

And his hand finds itself in hers as they leave - and perhaps he could never really draw away from her entirely.


	7. Hands remember

__A/N: For i-know-how-you-kiss, because apparently whinging about my still wet hair on a morning peak hour commute gives Liz headcanons and I can't say no to her.__

A little Killian & Emma's hair fluff.

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 ** _Hands Remember_**

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Emma can always tell when the urge begins to brew, unsettled beneath her temples as it pulls and strains her in frustration.

The tension additionally seems to dwell in her neck, aching to hold up her head even when the whole thing is only going wrong and off-balance by an inch. There is a line in her neck somewhere at the back that twists with her head and twangs to remind her of what's wrong every time she moves it.

She can't recall the last time it was this bad - the irritation, the anger, the need, the weight.

It is always on her mind now, every time she looks in the mirror or turns a corner there is a little whip - long and delayed that catches - that irritates her, that drives the need to do something about it.

Part of her doesn't want to, after all there is a reason she let it get to this stage in the first place.

At a certain point it had even become a security blanket, a comfort that literally drapes her - one she'd never really thought of until the concept of altering it; of ridding herself from it, leaves her anxious and uncertain.

(And there is another reason she lets it get this far.)

But the crux of the problem is that every morning when she gets dressed it gets stuck and knotted as she pulls it out from her shirt; every morning, as she rushes to wrap herself within cotton or leather, it curls around the teeth of her jacket, daring the zip to do its worst. The teeth that she had never once thought about are suddenly a daily reminder that she has let it go on for far too long.

It is yet another daily reminder each and every time she wakes up, hair splayed across her face, thick and blanketing, that it has gotten out of control and that the idea of it smothering her to death isn't entirely beyond the realms of possibility.

It has started taking on a mind of its own, never settling itself in gentle waves or easy bounces, becoming far too heavy for pony tails and weighing her down with each attempt at tying it back.

And the growing heat of the weather makes it even more difficult to deal with, as the sun overheats her in kind (or _un_ kind), trapping humidity and -

The whole thing is ridiculous.

Emma really needs to cut her hair.

But she puts it off.

(And for a good reason.)

.

There was never really any definitive point at which she realised that he was doing it.

His hand, large and delicate and sure, had just always had a way of winding itself into her hair. In the cradle of neck, under her ear, to the light strands that often fell across her face - his fingers found their way into them all.

And the old saying holds true - it's _nice_ to have someone play with your hair.

He was always one to find excuses to touch it - pulling it over her shoulder, tracing it away from her face, combing all five fingers as they kissed until his hand was well and truly embedded.

It was addictive, the way little sensations - calming and stirring all at once - buzzed along the surface long after his hand had left, leaving a little reminder of him even when she could no longer see nor touch him.

But it wasn't as simple as that - every time his arms found their way around her waist, and her own hands clasped eagerly around his back, the ends of her hair found themselves meeting his fingers. She can't remember him always having done it, it can't possibly have always been long enough to reach her waist, but they did now, and he would wind and pull gently; playing absentmindedly with little soft tassels of her.

But just as she noticed the frequency with which he touched her hair, she also began to notice the frequency with which his fingers suddenly knotted there. Brushing his hand through the softer underside his fingers now tangled in a mess upon her back when his aim had merely been to hug her.

And it's silly to continue growing her hair when it's getting unruly, and it's daft to be sentimental about it, but every little touch - with or without hair - is a new element of their newfound intimacy she cherishes.

So she let's it grow longer and let's her patience grow shorter.

But the rings on his fingers knot one time too many.

.

All she can hear are sparrows (sparrows and the rustling of him in the sheets beside her) and yet that is not what wakes her.

Nor is what wakes her the blaring sunlight coming in from the window or the heat that it drenches on her bare back even through the small gossamer curtains.

No, what wakes her are the fingers tracing paths from head to spine.

She is lying on her stomach, arms curled beneath her and sheets just below the dimples of her back when he wakes her with these unexpected tracings.

Emma hesitates in opening her eyes - hesitates, and then decides against it altogether - the darkness underneath the lids a welcoming option to the tired morning ache in the rest of her body. And the sun is warm, even if the air coming in through the ever-open window isn't, and the fingers moving silently across her back should maker her shiver, should make her yearn to pull the blankets once more above her shoulders.

Should.

(But they don't - there is too much warmth in the tangle of their legs and the lazy morning stretch of her heart.)

So with her eyes closed, she feels instead the way Killian's fingers are following the strands of her hair. From the corner behind her ear - slowly, slowly - touching hair-root and freckles, all the way down her back and over bone, until they linger on the ends, until noticing finally the way his fingers peter through and onto skin.

He does it again.

And he repeats this motion countless times, the weight of his hand leaning more towards reverence than any other intention. She feels like a cat to be honest, curled up in the sunshine with a hand to lazily stroke her, soothing away any knots in her hair, knots in her neck, knots in her back.

(And she cannot remember the last time she awoke to such a feeling, to the tender appreciation without the implicit sexualisation - which is partly her fault, yes, but she had missed whatever this is without knowing she needed it.)

Emma loses herself to it a bit, that buzz once again ambling from her scalp - slowly, slowly - to her shoulders, to her back.

Killian's fingers do not trail the exact same path each time, whispering instead through different strands, Emma feeling each touch muted on the surface of her back - muted and yet the softness of her hair and the gentle nature of his hand seem to only enhance any (every) sort of feeling. And she's almost too tired to pay attention to anything else, to pay attention to the way her heart seems to follow his movements in much the same way the nerves on her skin do.

(But it does, her heart, waiting in anticipation for the hand to move from one spot to another, stuttering each time it leaves her back and starts from the beginning again.

She's beyond telling it to shut up.)

Definitely lazy; definitely like a cat.

The analogy only becomes a clearer reality as she makes a croaky purr of an appreciative sound when he starts the next path a little higher on her head - it has him chuckling.

The bed dips a little as she feels the weight of him edge nearer, an off-centre, wordless morning kiss placed on her forehead - and still the fingers continue their prostration.

"You've cut your hair."

He whispers the words, as though saying them any louder will break this early morning haze; will startle them from their utterly indulgent position.

(Will encourage someone to ring one of their phones.)

"What?" She mirrors his whisper, her voice layered in more sleep than his; more layered in his hypnotism.

"Your hair - it falls a little shorter than it used to."

"Yeah, what's your point?"

"You don't intend to cut it further do you, love?"

Emma cannot help the small grin that creeps across her face - not only is it ridiculous that he would notice such a small thing as what she trimmed off, but that he would care only reminds her all the more of just how much he enjoys tangling himself in it.

(And how much she enjoys him tangling himself there.)

(And how much she enjoys tangling with him.)

And the implied concern that she may cut it shorter still breaks her grin into a dimpled tease.

"Don't worry, it'll always be long enough for you to pull my pigtails."

She knows he doesn't exactly understand the phrase, his fingers now moving from her hair to trace the invisible line beneath it on the skin of her back - she can tell by the low humming he replies with, tinged with confusion and acceptance.

She risks the light and opens her eyes to see him at last, leaning on his unbraced arm, hair and kohl a wild mess, and Emma is shocked and yet unsurprised by the wondrous, tender look she sees on his own face, one that grows into a timid smile as eyes meet.

Suddenly, now that she is awake, his intentions change.

(Maybe she had done that low humming sound one too many times.

Or maybe she was just very naked.

Or maybe it was the creep of her toes along his calf...)

Those five fingers, ring-clad and with more energy, move the hair from her neck as his lips plant a kiss that still feels a little lazy under her ear, but one that is waking.

(Just as the rest of their bodies are - limbs stretching from their slumber, brains reacquainting themselves with day, knees greeting one another.)

And still those five fingers follow the gold of her hair once more down her back, following the warm softness of it - and once they reach the ends they do not stop and restart their ministrations as before.

No, this time his hand treads a new path down under the blankets, until the soft edge of his nails and his palm trace the curves of her backside, teeth and lips lingering on her jaw.

"Well, I would hate to miss both hide and hair."


	8. Where my heartache and the timbers lay

_A/N: So there was a little Neverland Renaissance over on tumblr and I was drawn into a little angsty moment. This only barely counts as Neverland… but I've never written Neverlandish stuff before soo.. this is just a little bit of character feels._

 _A missing scene from 3x09._

 _._

 _Where my heartache and the timbers lay_

 _._

The whole concept of what's happening before him is foreign.

Before him and inside him, torn between sharing the elation of those around him - the victory, the relief - and torn against wallowing in confusion and self pity.

Henry is safe; Pan's shadow reluctantly bringing them all home; lost children, about a dozen boys being fed stew on the decks of his ship while heroes mill about easing themselves out of fight mode. It should relax him, should calm him. He has helped these people to achieve victory, achieve something honourable (for once).

Should.

But an uneasy sickness tightens his stomach because as out of danger as they all are, even as he drifts further and further away from that wretched place with every second, he is uncertain of his own place in amongst these… heroes.

 _She_ also seems so much calmer than she had been in the last few days (or as he's ever seen her), her boy safe and sound, well rested and milling about on deck talking to his father and Felix, no doubt trying to convert the unconvertible. She watches it all with a look of relief, even if there is an air about her as though she is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

His ship creaks beneath him, as aching and confused as he is, asking where it is they will go next.

But he doesn't really know.

(Well, he has an idea.)

And then there's the Crocodile, slinking about on her deck where he does not belong with his tail between his legs and claws crossed behind his back. The ghost of Milah and the past three hundred years hissing after him as he walks around without a care.

Still, Killian can't quite believe he finds himself here. The feeling of guilt was what lead him to help in the first place, but then something as alien and outlandish as hope found him in the depths of a pair of green eyes, and the strength and light sans senseless optimism that lived in the woman that kept them.

(A hope that sparked something else in the way his lips tingle when he looks at her now – a memory or her own, an urge, a disbelief, a feeling – that is also anomalous.

Too long it has been since the thought of a woman made him feel this way.

If it ever felt quite this way at all.)

However, for some reason unbeknownst to him, being up in these starlit clouds seems to cast a calm on those down below him. So hushed is it all that the flap of the sails above him ring out distractedly and almost eerily, while each person whispers in conversation, as though if they spoke any louder to match the whipping sails the ship itself might drop from the sky; the clouds are what's keeping them sheltered from harm.

She whispers too.

"Hey."

With his hand and hook on the wheel and his eyes on course he doesn't turn to look at her, but responds with an equally hushed - "Swan, what can I do for you?"

Killian doesn't intend for the words to sound bitter, they are not intended to bite at her in any way (never her), but the happy reunions happening all around him, the strangeness taking place on _his_ ship has put him on edge.

And then there's her.

They - she and he - had been on a different kind of course to the one he now leads through the night sky. They had been on a crashing kind, every moment of interaction burning and scorching him in an unpleasant kind of sensation that quickly became addicting. He could have sworn she had felt it too, the unpleasant prickling that seemed to live restlessly in the veins under his forearms and the bones behind his lungs.

And then her heels had dug in.

Stubbornly, deeply, and with great force of will they had dug, changing her direction and leaving him to follow the old one himself. Of course, she had been focused on Henry and Killian did not want in any reality for her to change that focus, but it seemed to provide her with an excuse to leave him on that path by himself, to dig and spin her heels away.

He chances a glance at the woman beside him, turtleneck all the way up to the length of her chin, and silent. She still hasn't spoken beyond her simple hello. But she is standing there, seemingly at peace, a timid smile (small though it is) etching itself - though Killian can still tell that her mind is working at a million miles an hour.

She catches his glance and Killian does not pretend he wasn't looking, he does not shy away from being caught out – she does that for him, blinking, sighing, and licking her lips as she gazes back down the length of the _Jolly._ He follows her gaze, noting how she watches Neal talking quietly with his father.

"I just wanted to thank you."

He wonders what it is Emma is looking for as she continues to observe Neal.

And Killian wonders what it is she is trying to achieve by this current interaction with him now.

"Don't mention it, love. No, really, don't mention it – it's bad for my reputation."

The words have their intended effect, she tears her eyes back to his, an unimpressed glare in them as she scrunches her nose, and he grins perhaps a little deviously, yearning more than he should be allowed for their banter to return.

(Wants to rid the sour pining expression from his face if he cannot remove it from his heart.)

"We couldn't have survived that place without you."

She's staring straight at him now, eyes wide and vulnerable but determined to get the message across. However, it's the minuscule shifting she does from one foot to another that tells him she wants to use the singular 'I' rather than the plural of 'we'. And the boat creaks beneath him, easing herself across unfamiliar skies, and even though he knows there are spoons clanking in bowls beneath him, and voices hushed and chattering, all he seems to hear are Emma's intended meanings pulsing loudly disguised as the blood in his ears.

"I didn't do it for them, Swan. Henry, probably. If pushed, Baelfire as well."

She doesn't believe it for a second, arms crossed like armour across herself, but eyes all-telling, eyes all-knowing and unafraid of his bullshit.

Yet, she does not move. As difficult as her gratefulness was to convey to him, she is still standing there as though with unfinished business. Killian does not push this time, focuses on teetering the wheel a little with the tap of his hook, it clanking in the darkness while she tucks at the hair blowing behind her. Emma hides it behind an ear, steeling herself for whatever it is this cool, quiet night air has inspired her with.

"What will you do when we get back to Storybrooke?"

 _Ah._

Now at least he knows why her eyes are so nervous.

The question, so simple, so innocent, reveals far more than she is comfortable with, still staring at him with searching eyes as though looking for a sign of betrayal. She won't find one. Although, Killian wonders if maybe that's worse for her. Perhaps, if she weren't so easy for him to read he would see it as curiosity, as plain and simple conversation but read her he does and understands exactly her concern - that he might just disappear when he drops them all off home again, job finished, good deed done, bean-theft atoned.

He lets go of the wheel after ensuring it is steady, and takes but two steps towards her, timber floorboards speaking to him as he does – in warning or encouragement (there's no way of knowing what the croaking means). It seems as though Emma was expecting this, knew that with the right words from her mouth he'd waltz straight back into her space, and she eyes him unruffled by it. So he crowds her as she remains staunch, continuing this nightly fashion for whispering.

"Well, that all depends."

She doesn't like his answer knowing that his implication involves her, arms still crossed, response suddenly stony rather than vulnerable as it had been.

Emma is resolute to keep him at arm's length, as long as that's as far he stays, and Killian isn't sure whether that frustrates him or flatters him – to know that in some sense she wants him by her, though still too scared or stubborn or aching to know what to do about him once he's there.

"On what?" Her voice now impatient and short.

"There's no need to play coy with me, Emma."

He's trying to reciprocate her prior vulnerability (the vulnerability that cuts him deeper than he cares to focus on) but that green feeling, that Neal-caused-jealousy clawing at his gut does not mix well with feeling like a stranger behind the wheel of his own ship, and his impatience shows in his tone. She's not bothered though, looks at him as though he's still playing the fool, and perhaps he is, forcing this tension between them into a strenuous thing when he needn't.

(It feels strenuous enough as it is.)

"I'm not in the mood for this, Hook, I just thought we owed you our thanks."

"You're conveying more than that, love."

She holds his stare a little longer, and up here, with the stars and the clouds, they are strangely well lit. Her eyes clear and every emotion in them visible to him in a far more pleasant green to the one in his stomach - this green showing irritation, exasperation, _want,_ fear.

He shouldn't be this close to her, not when the feel of her hands on him, bodies swaying into one another as they grappled - in more than one sense of the word - still tinges their every encounter. She ignores it mostly, only acknowledging it when he brings it up as factual, but he can see its remnant in her behaviour, as though now doubly aware of what being this close to him could only result in. Killian would more than willingly oblige and remind her, lose his fingers in the borders of her hair and lock her lips with his, noses brushed against each others and pull the fear out of her that way.

But this option is a mere fantasy, a delusion. He knows he will not be the one to break this stalemate - not when she's fighting with herself so vehemently, not even when his heart pounds so oppressively as he notices the increased rise of her panic, the increased rate of her breath.

(The increased flicker of her eyelashes.)

And when she speaks next, it's a warning and a plea all mixed up in yet another harsh whisper.

"Don't."

She turns, sighing, ripping apart their locked gaze with what feels to him like great difficulty, causing a shattering feeling to rumble through him at the loss (a heartache he's grown too familiar with in just a few, albeit long, days).

(But he feels as though it is just the beginning of Emma Swan turning away from him.)

And Emma's boots clop louder on the wooden deck than their entire conversation had, the timbre of the timber aching beneath her almost sadly as she goes. Those boots, those heels had turned back in his direction for just a moment onto his course, and his own malcontent had pushed her away again.

Quite plainly, it hurts him, regret itching at his jaw to say something else.

Killian is too far gone with this woman already to leave the small piece of herself she offered up without returning it back safely to her. Too far gone with this feeling that has wormed and settled in his jaw, deep and stiff, settling itself into his back teeth and the ends of his sentences. Punctuating everything with a bite. That isn't the only place he feels it - this longing, burning ache - but that is where it lingers most, burrowing itself silently in the midst of conversion, waiting, niggling, biding its time as though it is simply a yawn and he's been awake all night.

He may be uncertain about where he stands with her, the feelings changing in him, and with her kind (so to speak) - however, she is just as confused. That, more than the calm night and the hushed peace onboard his ship, soothes him most. The simple act of knowing that she is aware of his limbo, and seeks him out about it - whether intentional or not - fills him with a renewed sense of hope and affection.

Even though she is too skittish to be direct about it, and even though no resolution has been made for him, for her, or for whatever may be between the two of them.

Just as she makes her way to the stairs she halts at his parting words, not whispered but softer in their delivery all the same, before she continues without reply (without a backward glance) back down toward Neal.

"It depends on how expensive mooring is in Storybrooke."


	9. Touch me, baby, tainted love

_A/N: Hello, yes, I'd like a dose of Dark Swan manipulating love to her advantage, thanks._

 _._

 _Touch me, baby, tainted love._

.

It's wrong.

Everything is wrong.

The sparkle in her eye, the leather about her shoulders, the still air around them. He wants there to be chaos (he wants it to be like it was, really) her eyes should be as dark as her title, the wind dishevelling her hair, whipping the golden locks like the whipping of his heart. Killian's heart beats with whip-cracks, each snap one snap too many. The slow, winding lashes of his pulse until the final crack and pound against its cage had once been a sign of hope – and of her – all wrapped up in gentle touches.

But now?

She somehow looks free, and light and that in itself adds a gravity to her presence, as contradictory and strange as it may sound. The harsh lines of her jaw and her cheeks once were soft beneath his worn hand, and now they shine in the dim, dim night stillness making her seem cold and cruel. They are harder than they should be, golden shade and rigid skin around the round of her eyes and their brows.

The curse has been cruel with her, so she is being cruel with it.

Cruel isn't quite the right word, she looks like Emma – is Emma – and that in itself refutes the word, but – it's wrong and the problem all at once. She only half looks callous, still looks - and is - far too much like Emma.

There's a gentle lapping of the water on the sand around them, and it's the only sound until her feet, barefooted (for a change) and still small, begin crunching on coarse sand as she approaches him.

Out of instinct, Killian stands a little taller, his jaw jutting out, his fear under the careful cover of a cad, and a disguise that he hasn't pulled on Emma in a long, long time.

And for once he wishes they were not alone, wishes that her boy were here or her parents so that her focus was not solely on him. He doesn't trust himself. It's a sad old story, fearing once again not how the Dark One may physically hurt him, but that his heart has always been a fealty to someone else, and his heart has always been tortured at the whim of the sorcerer.

(Sorceress.)

"Killian."

He almost cringes at the way she says his name because it's too close, too similar. The soft and encouraging tone falling flat, as though whispered against something, as though hollowed out and the low, grounding bass of her timbre ripped from the word.

It loses its meaning.

(And yet, he hopes.)

He doesn't reply to her though, tearing his eyes from hers and feeling his jaw twitching under the strain it takes to not break. He had been weaker the last time few times he'd seen her, not quite sure what to make of the situation, unsure of where in amongst that blackness and obscurity her heart was and just how much it had been eclipsed.

The answer was a lot.

(But not entirely.)

She edges closer to him, moving gently and sure, her eyes never leaving his and never showing any sign of letting his reluctance to engage dissuade her.

He is trying so hard to not do this – to not fall. Because it is _so_ easy to slip back into the darkness, _so_ easy to let the lure of not caring overtake him, and the temptation of knowing that it would be her he would fall into, her that would drag him.

(Her that would still have him.)

And maybe he should fall.

"Killian."

Still hollow, still tainted. And he tightens his grip on the item in his hand.

"What do you want, love?"

He tries to put some edge in his tone, but it seems futile – they both know she will have the upper hand in whatever this is – and he succeeds a little but mainly his voice simply comes out exhausted. Killian had come here to escape the tension of the loft, their most recent hero gathering a failure, the Crocodile still unable (or unwilling) to provide anything new to go on regarding Camelot, their one true hope at fixing this. However, he should have known better – the water hardly being a place where he, the pirate, wouldn't be found. Still, he was surprised when she hadn't just popped out of thin air opting instead for the walk all the way up the beach, faltering only once or twice to see what he would do, as though he were skittish prey.

(He should have left.)

"What, am I not allowed to talk to you now?"

Emma's tone is so casual and intimate, that it's as though nothing has changed, the hint of the flirtatious grin on her face drifting into her words, as though she is simply teasing him as always. He almost wants to believe it – that she has sought him out for something else – but her voice still sounds so tinny to his ears – and her eyes flicker around them as though calculating, her eyes flickering on her prize.

And he suddenly realises that, _of course_ , those are her intentions.

"I would happily welcome _talk_ with you, Swan, but you must think I'm daft if you think I don't know why you're here."

He knows so plainly why she's here, it's gripped in his hand, the cold metal as unwelcome to him as the teasing look curving in her smile. To her credit, she doesn't ignore his comment, so much as let it feed her look playfully, the one that crawls into him in a not wholly unpleasant way.

She's much too close to him now though, moving well within arm's reach and for one brief moment Killian wishes he had never known who she was, overwhelmed with the need for her, but the other her, and if he had not known her, she would have less power over him.

This conflict seems to rage within him constantly – the distinction between who she was and who she is – knowing in his heart that she is still one and the same, yet not convinced by what he sees before him and what she presents before him as anything close to one and the same.

He is likely to never know where the line is, and she seems determined to never show him.

And he seems determined to find it.

Emma's fingers slowly meet the collared lapels of his jacket, brushing against them tenderly and without hesitation, not quite meeting his eyes, smile still half-lit on her face.

The action is far too familiar.

His grip tightens.

(In more ways that one.)

"Well, would it help if I said I've missed you?"

He laughs at that, a small, sick, sad thing because she's laying it on too thickly, he knows she's lying, and yet the fact that she knows it's what he wants to hear is smaller and sicker and sadder than anything else.

"Not particularly, no."

She adds another hand to his chest, the pair of them largely just sitting there on his jacket, running under the edges until she grips it a bit harder, the tiniest of movements, pulling him forward a little and pulling her up a bit more. Still, Killian remains still and every time she drifts a little closer, his chin lifts a little higher.

Emma, for her part, seems unfazed (probably because his hooked arm rests upon her waist). Inching forward, her nose hovers, never quite touching his jawline, testing his restraint like no other. But it's _all_ wrong. Her hair tense and tied is a sight he's never seen, and as she lingers and her nose makes the faintest of feelings against him, he realises she even smells differently.

"Is this about what she said?"

This is in part why had hadn't wanted to be alone with her. He'd seen her before, but never just the two of them, never had the chance to bring up what had happened before. He wasn't about to ignore her confession – said in fear, in wind and in tears – but it was the last thing he wanted to talk about with the woman who was not quite her, not when he was so unsure which version he was speaking to. Or if Emma would even hear him.

Killian's hand coils a little tighter.

"She meant it, you know," her open mouth puffing little wisps of air against his throat and his jaw, sending unwelcome, conflicting thrills across his spine.

And it is taking all of his resolve.

For all that he cannot believe this is her, for all that her words and eyes lack so much, he cannot believe that this is not still the same woman who loves him. (He cannot believe she loves him). There are two different Emmas, but their organs - their hearts - one and the same, their hands still made of the same quiet touch, and he will go mad with despair if he does not concede that she is still one and the same.

That she is in there somewhere.

He pulls away for a moment, intent upon meeting her eyes with his, of making her rather than him feel uncomfortable for once.

"You mean, _you_ meant it."

There is only one tell that tells him that the seriousness of his voice had any affect – she blinks. Just once. And the look that is on her face prior to and after the blink is unchanged, no sign at all of any feeling. But the blink, the quick snap shut of her lids, is enough.

And it snaps with a swallow of his throat.

What he hadn't been expecting was for her expression to change entirely.

No longer playing jovial and teasing, no longer forcing that angle. Instead, her eyes widen a tad, her expression softer, her lips sadder. Those infuriatingly familiar fingers, five of them find his cheek, their touch feeling like sorrow and apology and magic. Her mouth opens a little, gaping with unchosen words.

He almost believes it.

(Killian wants to believe it so much that he can't help but hope the real Emma is peering through.)

But her other hand, Emma's other five fingers, drift down his right arm and he tenses as the feeling through his leather and his shirt, muffled and barely there, do anything but the comforting gesture she is trying to make them seem they are.

And her fingers finally clasp around his, her eyes still beseechingly intent upon his own, hand cupping his face to ensure it's where his focus is. Part of him wonders what would happen if he just leant forwards and drifted his lips across hers – would it bring her back to him, or bring him into her, would they stand there fighting and choosing sides with their lips.

She may be lying about missing him, but he's definitely missing her, and even though each touch is a lie, he needs to believe that at some point they will stop being deception. Perhaps it is his touch that will help to do just that; perhaps her own are only half a lie.

He knows the looks she's giving him is not quite right, but once again he is struck by the inability to know the line. Is she faking this look, is she faking the tenderness on her face, or is this her and the other Emma is simply struggling to mask it entirely? Are the glittering traces of magic ingrained upon her skin distracting him from the truth pouring out of her?

His throat feels thick with the temptation, the yearning and the frustration. He could do it, he could simply lean across and remind this new Emma of what she is missing, and she only encourages him, fingernails brushing through his beard, eyes inconsistently remaining on his eyes or his lips.

Killian is all too aware of the fact that he's leaning into her, that the tilt of their bodies no longer shows him on the defensive, as he purely and simply _misses_ her. It's like he's forgotten, like the feeling of his cold nose meeting hers erases situation and wavering from his mind now that he is so close, his eyelids dwindling shut as she opens her mouth to breathe openly against his own.

It's so tempting.

And in about three seconds he will give in.

(He should have known better.)

The fingers on his own suddenly begin to do more than just linger, sliding across his knuckles and rings and to the tips of his fingers, trying to uncoil them as silently as possible, trying to pry them loose.

Trying to unfurl the Dark One's dagger from his grasp.

He was under more than he thought he was, lost in the contemplation of reality and fiction, lost boy seeking lost girl. Killian's expression changes from one of pained scepticism, to a rising bitterness as he pulls away and back, the snapping of his heart a sick reminder of the harm – and maybe she is cruel after all as she lets out an almost pained sigh and a condescending, knowing smile at seeing the cocky distrust return to his expression. Her eyes once more meeting the dagger with a yearning that he wishes were trained on him.

So, not the real Emma then.

Emma's tone is still soft though, still trying to lure him under in some way, but the fingers around his are a sure sign he won't be pulled under again.

"The sooner you realise she's gone, Hook, the better."

He slowly draws his hand out of hers, the dagger still there, still refusing to change hands from his. Killian closes his eyes, squinting them to maintain focus, opens his mouth to say something, to bite back for the cold-blooded use of his feelings –

But she's gone.

Leaving him standing alone on the still quiet beach, with nothing, but a stinging heart and a dagger for his efforts, and the feeling that once again his world is askew. Because he knows he should know when she's deceiving him, Killian knows he shouldn't believe the way the darkness tricks him. But it would be easier if she was straight out malicious, if the darkness was palpable in her, would be easier if he could tell just by looking at her what was wrong and what was right.

It would be easier if it wasn't Emma.

And if he could believe she was truly gone.


	10. Find the children lost at sea

_A/N: Because imagining how they could have played out the deleted scene from 4x06 was driving me nuts. (If you don't know what I'm referring to check out Adam's twitter :3)_

.

 _Find the children lost at sea_

.

The first thing she does is reach for his hand.

It seems to be what they do now.

At first it felt like such an innocent albeit meaningful way to touch him, to comfort him as she comforted herself, drawing from his own strength as he drew from hers. Although, if she was being entirely honest with herself, she first grabbed his hand for the simple reason that she wanted to, just some gut instinct telling her it would be better to do so, better to simply hold his fingers between hers, better to fight off the shock.

(Drawing from his warmth as she shivered to the bone, letting him squeeze away his anxiety with his heels at his haunches.)

Then he'd grabbed hers from across a checkered tablecloth and she had been reminded, with a briefly visible flickering panic, the intimacy of the gesture - that quiet touches can often mean that much more. And it was new, and every time they did it it was a reminder of just how long the gesture had been unfamiliar to the both of them.

Out of practice, maybe, but neither of them shied away from it.

(Half the time couldn't tear their eyes from it.)

And it's such a simple notion, and Emma's sure there's a Beatles song about it somewhere, but she likes it, likes the contact, likes the feel of his hand ( _both_ of them) - a little rough, recollections of a coarser life ingrained into them, though still soft in their own way - holding on to hers.

The hands comfort them and alleviate, fingerprint sliding to fingerprint, holding on to this thing between them.

(Heart line to heart line.)

There's a far off look shadowed on his face, years swimming in them somewhere, faces she cannot see, aches so rarely spoken of they are unsure just how to croak in the clearing they've sat. But Emma is still surprised at the serious turn of their conversation, and yet unsurprised at just how her heart stills with every word, with every syllable he whispers of how his father had left him and his brother.

Killian's hand sits clenched upon his thigh, muscles as tense as the memory, tense and no where near the soft husk of his voice. She reaches for it, fingers gently resting upon his with a sadness and a voiceless word. It almost startles him, causing him to pause in his boyhood reflection, tearing his gaze from their restless movement to watch as her fingers settle and unwind his own without force, without prying.

"He left you on a boat in the middle of the ocean?"

There's little discernible emotion in the whisper of her tone, save one – incredulity. And she feels it, that fire of almost anger that suddenly sparks from the stillness of her heart, burning embers of something, that fire of kinship and the inexplicable connection that always seems to be there with them. This fire that usually warms, flooding her with a frighteningly wonderful sensation, is the same feeling but it's different.

It hurts her this time, and she hates it.

"Aye."

One word he gives, staring back at her briefly before the fingertips running over the palm of his hand distract him. The angle is a little difficult, unable to properly entwine or interlace, each of them sitting almost touching on the log facing opposite directions – but they manage, her fingers curling over his opening fist.

And it gets worse, it only gets worse, Killian no longer able to simply tell her the facts of what happened ( _"…he was gone, he had stolen a dinghy…"_ ) the memory betraying his attempted (and dwindling) stoicism.

The facts lead way to feelings.

Of all the times Emma had been left behind, of all the betrayals, she had never been left behind on a boat. It doesn't matter. She doesn't need to experience the sway of the ocean as her own personal shock waves to know that when Killian says he felt like he'd been cast overboard, he is not exaggerating.

There is no hyperbole big enough to cover what he means.

She could know it from personal experience, but she doesn't need to, the poorly glossed over pain of abandonment on his face evidence enough. She knows that when he says he felt like he was being dragged down into the depths it's not some old pirate story, it's not an old sailing metaphor.

It's not the memory from childhood making it all seem bigger in that way it often seems to do to rooms, to places, to people.

"It was dreadful."

She just knows.

(His thumb and the ring attached to it graze along her pointer and her smaller fingers curl a little around the back of his hand in kind, trying to show just how much she cares.

She cares too much.)

"But thankfully, I had Liam to steady me."

He smiles at their hands sadly, the flicker of an upturn no where close to an expression of happiness, his voice a little stronger (though a sad kind of stronger, a memory of strength, a ghost of joy) at the mention of his brother. She smiles sadly in response, though he probably doesn't notice out of the corner of his eye.

Emma wonders just how much of Killian Jones she still doesn't know. Because she knows who he is, knows his soul better than he does most days she'd wager. And that's just it, she feels like she _knows_ him - and then this happens, a history she'd never even contemplated, a pain she had no idea they shared.

And the feeling between them that itches into her grows impossibly with each confession of his, with every little bit of warmth that springs from where they touch. Partly because of that kindred feeling, partly just because of what he means to her.

(What she's starting to let him mean to her.)

"I never would have survived without him."

That fire burns a little more stubbornly, twisting in her throat, singeing everything unforgivingly and she can feel her jaw open a little, wanting to say something to ease him. She wants him to look at her, but he won't – he may have been able to maintain control (and eye contact) over the memory a little more with his hand curled around itself, but his hand is curled around hers, her thumb dawdling on his pulse point, his walls coming down a little at the tender touch.

And the fire hisses at her heart.

Emma lets her face fall to his shoulder lips first in sympathy, mouth making contact and squashing slightly with the leather of his new jacket. The act itself is so gentle he barely moves, but the affection in her silent bump has him sighing something deep and rusty, licking his lips as he prepares himself with something.

(His hand tightening and swaying hers a little.)

"But you, Swan…"

The sudden strength in his voice now makes more sense – it has less to do with the fond memory of Liam (though still a little to do with that she can tell) and more to do with the purpose of his reflection. His head turns to look at her so in turn she lifts her head to see him properly, eyes watching as his blue look a little raw but affectionate as always, noses not yet close enough to touch.

"You had no one."

Her gut twists.

She feels a little uncomfortable now, leaning back an inch, that fire travelling into the back of her throat uneasily, unwelcome. Emma tries and fails to douse it, tries in vein to swallow it away. She'd forgotten in his confession how it had all started, forgotten that as he sat there proving his point with the discomfort on his own past, that maybe the wounds made in childhood are not so easily covered.

Truth is, they linger, just as hers always had.

(She lets her hand linger in his as his grasp tightens round the back of hers with the increasingly uneasy words he says.)

"I can only imagine how difficult that must have been."

She closes her eyes momentarily, tearing them to look away from him, his voice barely touching the trees around them.

Emma doesn't know what to say, because he's right, it's not the same, but it _almost_ is and he's bared his own soul (unprompted) simply to try and prove to her once more that though it hurts – he _knows_ how it hurts – she is strong, has always been strong.

He is in awe of her strength, as though he believes in every bit of it. It never ceases to amaze her - his confidence in her - the admiration she sees when she lets herself, and the way he is certain she is stronger than his own failings (- she hates that too).

( _"Take it from me, revenge isn't the thing that's going to make you feel better" "All I could do was relive that final, terrible moment. Don't do that to yourself, love"_ ).

She'd brushed off her childhood trauma before – dismissing and running from the pain in the way she knew best – and only moments earlier, but the moment in between now and then is suddenly much heavier. To say anything about it, about the past, would be to make the moment far worse than it already is.

And Emma doesn't want to.

(The night before had been bad enough, tears threatening heavily in her eyes, the memories of Lily in full force as it played out in front of her, catching thickly in her throat.

Him by her side. Their hands clasped comfortably.)

And she doesn't want to think about it in that much detail now.

She becomes occupied instead with silently trying to say something, looking back at him with just as much incredulity and pain as before - but a finger wriggles against hers and she kisses him.

Listlessly, and just once, feeling every little bit of him she touches (lips and stubble, heart and heartache) lips finding his with more affection than pain, more understanding than gratitude. When they break apart they may as well still be kissing for the distance (or lack there of) between them, nose tips still bent in each others cheeks, cheeks reddening and running high with emotion.

The fire crawls into her lips.

She should say something, say anything, but his fingers ghost over her wrist, making incomplete circles in what she's sure is meant to be a reassuring gesture – but her heart stumbles, picking itself up quickly, hoping no one saw it trip.

So, Emma kisses him once more, barely quicker at all (though with just as much hush) before he pulls away, lips and hearts torturously against the motion. When she looks back at him, his emotions more and more in check, he is running his gaze over the parts of her face where she imagines a phantom hand is wanting to trace.

(She does it for him, left hand lifting from its place on the papers in her lap to cradle his cheek instead, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone.

But the cardboard crinkling noise of the papers as she'd lifted off her hand draws his attention, torn from the reverence of her face back to their prior task.)

Killian doesn't clear his throat, but when he speaks his voice is clearer and without whisper, and bolder even if it rumbles, tilting his head towards the manila folder in her lap, feet rustling against leaves – the young boy tucked back beneath the leather and out of sight.

"What is it?"

She gives him one last look where she hopes he sees the affection as she intends it – and Emma knows he has seen it when his fingers move to trace the back of her hand before unwinding completely.

She knows he knows.

(He always seems to know.)


End file.
